The Stuff of Legend
by oshare-banchou
Summary: They dance a fragile two-step in the city's limelight. He watches, entranced, from the sidelines. Shizuo/Celty with a side of Izaya


_It's in the quiet moments_

_That we find ourselves_

_The soul shines through_

_Sweet, speechless words_

_My hand in yours_

_Your hand in mine_

_A love the busy world_

_Will never pause to tarnish_

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><p><strong>Title: <strong>The Stuff of Legend**  
>Character(s) or Pairing(s):<strong> Shizuo/Celty + Izaya**  
>Rating:<strong> PG**  
>Warnings: <strong>none**  
>Summary:<strong> They dance a fragile two-step in the city's limelight. He watches, entranced, from the sidelines.

* * *

><p>They form the quintessential odd couple, the bartender-suited terror of Ikebukuro and the mystery-shrouded Headless Rider, rumors of a daring tryst between two urban legends flying faster than hurled vending machines and fit to grace the gossiped pages of tourist-guides-turned-tabloids, sealed and approved by Orihara Izaya himself and sold at a convenience store near you.<p>

A mere lovers' sunset stroll through the park has never before triggered such a paradoxical incongruity of awe and fear stamped so plainly on the faces of the self-proclaimed "jaded" denizens of Ikebukuro. They immediately abandon all pretense of discretion for a quick fix of vicarious action and a bid for tonight's barroom bragging rights. The oxymoron of emotions manifest at every rainbow-tinted notch along the spectrum, from the wide-eyed transfixion of reckless teenagers to the rapidly ratcheting survival instinct of Mr. Much More Practical, who has a wife and kids to consider and can't quite afford to kick the bucket in a street brawl just yet, especially on his meager salary.

But the young couple pays the whole lot no discernable heed, pointedly oblivious to the oglers and the busybodies who were ogling yesterday and will still be busybodies tomorrow, a routine regimented like clockwork that puts all Izaya's religious hobby-switching to shame. In a world suspended, she squeezes his hand gently in hers as captivated stares bear down on the back of head and helmet alike, the heavy silence drowned by the droning percussion accompaniment of excited fingers tap-tapping on cell phone keypads. His racing heartbeat and stiffly checked posture are the only clues to betray a madly frothing temper kept neatly hemmed in by the soothing pressure of another's touch.

They sidle smoothly past the riveted onlookers, an exercise in charades passed with flying colors. He inhales sharply as they saunter into a more secluded grove, only just now aware he'd been waiting and watching with bated breath, his face bearing an open expression so much like the expectant child wishing on four-leaf clovers and shooting stars. Ikebukuro's citizens blink themselves from a single-minded trance, swallowing freshly witnessed reality to paint later caricatures of _The bartender who swept the Rider into his arms_ or trashy-novel-type hype entitled _The ruby-red sunset's ignition of a passionate night_, the rumor mill an art in constant metamorphosis on the cutting-room floor.

Sparing little attention for the blueprinting of tomorrow's headlines on the buzzword drawing board, the couple disappears from view, and the world kindly resumes its churning, clanking, clambering business in their absence. Comparatively minor obstacles that plague the road to instant gratification easily deter the prying eyes of Ikebukuro's citizens, who unwittingly prefer the slippery web of juicy gossip to the innocent truth lying at the tangled heart of another hometown mystery.

Finally alone, she needn't even see his face to revel in the warmth radiating from that honest smile, their blissful escape reflected in the depths of brown eyes. His sudden hesitant syllables and deferential gestures are encouraged by a sympathetic tilt of her helmet, prompting a slightly crumpled red camellia, its proudly radiant beauty none the worse for a day's wear, to be drawn from his breast pocket. His eyes widen in alarm at the unfolding sight of bruised petals, and heart-wrenching apologies tumble forth from parted lips before one ebony-gloved finger presses softly against them to stem the flow.

That same gentle touch rescues the flower from a reluctant grip as she gazes up into a flushed face and averted gaze. She would never have pegged him for the blushing romantic type but falls head-over-heels all over again in the upward spiral of epiphany, instantly torn between gushing her feelings in a garbled text and simply cradling the camellia reverently in the palm of her hand, treasured like an O'Keeffe original. That now-oftentimes irrepressible grin sneaks back to brighten his features as he steals a lucky glance downward, the feather-edged flutter of butterflies in his stomach spurring him to slip an arm discreetly about slender shoulders and resolve their quiet night in a sunset-shaded embrace.

Several meters away, however, Orihara Izaya's unmistakable smirk looms around the frames of a pair of opera glasses. The lenses fog with fabricated tears, and he blots his eyes dramatically with a napkin from Russia Sushi.

"Now, now, that's much too cliché, Shizu-chan," he murmurs elegantly around the last piece of ootoro, with a light hum and the neat click of tongue on teeth. "I'll have to spice this up quite a bit, you know. So much work to be done!"

Indulgent plots and schemes blossom decadently in the recesses of his thoughts, his mind's eye intoxicated by the sight of that spectacular camellia withered, battered—deliciously trampled on unforgiving pavement like so many of Ikebukuro's dreams. A contented sigh sees him skipping merrily off in the direction of Shinra's apartment, the siren lure of Chaos fueling every step and a sugary rendition of "Everybody Loves Me, Baby" escaping wide-curled lips. After all, every author and editor alike understands that true love doesn't market nearly as well as twisted tales of envy-dashed hopes and bittersweet revenge.

_They're just so much more _entertaining_, don't you agree?_


End file.
